Is it ok to criticise Islam?

In
the aftermath of the Charlie
Hebdomassacre, in which
twelve members of the satirical magazine’s staff were
murdered by Islamist gunmen, the mantra “Je suis Charlie” rapidly
circulated around the globe. As is often the case in these situations, it wasn’t
long before this mantra had congealed into a symbol of self-righteousness—an
opportunity for “virtue signalling” by image
conscious social media users. But the initial spark behind this message—the
original meaning that seemed to evaporate through its endless reproduction—was important: solidarity
should be shown with those who are murdered for mocking a religion.

However,
not
everyone
was Charlie. Before the smoke had settled the publication had been branded a modern day Der Sturmer, an insensitive
and racist publication whose raison d’etre was to mock
marginalised communities. This dispute was a replay of one that often occurs
after an attack of this kind. Essentially, it hinges on the following question:
when does legitimate criticism of Islam become Islamophobia? Or to put it
another way: at what point does criticising or even mocking someone’s
beliefs become an attack on those who hold them?

The
contours of this debate began to form a quarter of a century ago. In the
closing years of the 1980s Ayatollah Khomeini issued a fatwa against Salman
Rushdie
for his satirical novel, The Satanic Verses. The author’s
‘crime’ had been to
write about the birth of Islam in a way that was seen as impious by some
Muslims, and the Ayatollah decided it would be politically convenient to
take offence. During the aftermath of what became known as
the “Rushdie Affair,” a division opened up within the
ranks of the left
that remains to this day:
some people defend the author in
the name of free speech, while others criticise him for being insensitive—or what
in today’s lexicon might be called “Islamophobic.”

In
Joseph
Anton, his memoir of the period, Rushdie provides a
decidedly Manichaean characterisation of this rift. “He
thought often,” he writes, using the third person, “that
the crisis was like an intense light shining down on everyone’s
choices and deeds, creating a world without shadows, a stark unequivocal place
of right and wrong action...In that harsh glare some publishers looked heroic
while others looked spineless.” Those who
support him, he claims, are defending free
speech,
and those who criticise him for being “offensive” are turning their
backs on this most fundamental of democratic rights.

This
is the argument made by many free speech advocates in other, similar
situations. From this perspective the choice is clear cut: you are either for free speech or against it. There is no
grey area in Rushdie’s “world without
shadows.” Therefore, it is imperative to line up
behind publications such as Charlie Hebdo or the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten when they
caricature and mock the Prophet Muhammad. Controversialists like these are the
lifeblood of an open society, and if Islam is ring-fenced from criticism then
the very fabric of democracy will unravel, beginning with everyone’s
right to say exactly what they want.

Underlying
this line of thought is a straightforward assumption: Islam is a religion, a
set of beliefs and ideas that can be freely adopted or rejected at will
(unlike, say, membership of a racial group). It is, therefore, a legitimate
target for criticism. Invoking the Enlightenment, the
left-leaning absolutists of free speech condemn those who are reluctant to take
Islam to task as ‘postmodernists’ in
hock to a vapid cultural relativism. Like any other religion, Islam should be
subjected to scrutiny. To hold back through fear of offending others is
self-censorship. In Rushdie’s words, it’s
“spineless.”

Behind
this rhetoric is a reasonable argument. Free expression should always be
defended, particularly when the pen is silenced by the Kalashnikov. Moreover,
to refrain from criticising or even lampooning Islam would be to select one
group of people and raise them above the fray of open debate. This would be
patronizing to Muslims, and it would do them, as well as the wider society, a
disservice. Nobody benefits from silence.

It’s
also important to note another sturdy plank in the free speech argument: vulnerable
minorities have their own vulnerable minorities. No religious, ethnic or
national group is homogenous, and hierarchical relations of power exist within
communities as well as between them. By
refusing to challenge the dominant ideas of a particular group, there’s
a risk that the group will be essentialized. In the process, internal
minorities or individual members of the group will be isolated.

But
for all its strengths, the free speech argument is a misleading way of framing
this debate. By conceptualising the issue solely in terms of ‘free
speech’ and then presenting it as an either/or
choice, this approach actually obscures the real issues at stake. Most of those
who criticise Charlie
Hebdo and
other such publications do not dispute their right to speak freely:
they are more concerned with the meaning of their words
and the context in which they
are spoken.

Speech
always takes place within a context. Articles, cartoons and films are all
embedded within a particular time and place. Behind each and every cultural
product is a world of meaning constituted by the historical and socio-political
context within which it is produced. And the manner in which it is received is
shaped by this same context. Pre-fatwa Rushdie made this very point: “Works
of art, even works of entertainment do not come into being in a social and
political vacuum…the way they operate in a society cannot
be separated from politics, from history. For every text, a context.”

What
is the context of much of the criticism and satire that is levelled at Islam
and Muslims today? Islamophobia from the far (and not so far) right; a “War
on Terror” discourse that frames all Muslims as
potential killers; the catastrophic invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq; and
violent, political upheaval throughout the Middle East. Against this backdrop it’s little wonder
that many Muslims don’t feel like laughing at caricatures of
the Prophet Muhammad or engaging in discussions about the flaws in their faith.

Many free speech advocates
characterise this stance pejoratively as a “Yes, but…” argument—a
pusillanimous defence of basic democratic values that cedes too much ground to
terrorists. But this is nonsense buoyed up by macho rhetoric. The dispute is
not about free speech, and to hunker down behind abstract principles while
refusing to deal with the world as it actually exists is to opt for cheap
moralising at the expense of rigorous analysis. This is what Rousseau meant
when he wrote that, “Those who desire to separate politics
from morals will understand neither.”

Free
speech is a principle
worth defending, and it should certainly be protected from theocratic thugs
with guns as well as from anyone else who wants to curtail it. I’m
happy to declare “Je suis Charlie” myself,
no matter how tired a slogan it might sound. Nobody should be killed for
drawing cartoons. But in order to show commitment to slain satirists and the
inviolability of free expression, we don’t have to ignore
the concerns of those at whom the satire is aimed.

There
is nothing wrong with complexity. The world is full of ‘shadows’ and
shades of grey that cannot be ignored. It is not morally weak to say ‘Yes,
but I am also concerned about how free speech is used.’ In
fact, this position is both intellectually and ethically stronger and more
rigorous than a simple declaration of ‘Yes, I believe
in free speech’ that’s followed by a hollow silence.
Caveats don’t weaken a moral stance—they make the arguments that underpin it
even stronger.

About the author

William Eichler is an editorial assistant and freelance journalist who lives and works in the UK. He has an MA in Middle Eastern Studies from the University of Nottingham, and reviews academic books on the Middle East for the LSE Review of Books. You can
follow him on Twitter: @EichlerEssays.

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